Maybe it’s how your eyes gleamed
in the glow of the television set
Or how your perfume still lingers
long after you have left
Innocent in silence, sly in words
That’s worth more than adoration

Yet all that remains are the flecks of tobacco
and the strain of losing contact
You’re as pure as the ocean waves
and I feel I am made of glass
If I wasn’t so ill, if I wasn’t so sick in spirit
I’d never wish for anything else

Bed left unmade, jokes about the contents
of your purse are four sheets to the wind
Long forgotten songs, a treasured motorcycle
leave little to hope and to dream for

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed